


sweet cherry wine

by bucksnatalia, girlzilla



Category: Black Widow (Comics), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: #BuckyNat Week, #BuckyNat Week 2015 Mini Bang, Assassination, Ballet, Department X, F/M, Hydra (Marvel), Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Mild Sexual Content, Recovery, Red Room, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-21
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-19 00:38:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3589755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bucksnatalia/pseuds/bucksnatalia, https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlzilla/pseuds/girlzilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Soldier has nothing but fractured memories of himself and no idea how to fix it. Natasha Romanov thinks she can help him. His mind is a whirlwind of memories that don't make sense, and when she becomes a part of them, the Soldier has to wonder how much he can really trust the only ally he has in the modern world. </p><p>For the Buckynat Mini Bang, 2015. </p><p>Story by bckynatalia. Art by girlzilla.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. part i

> _His eyes and words are so icy, oh but he burns like rum on the fire._
> 
> _Hot and fast and angry as he can be, I walk my days on a wire._

 His eyes open to a white sky, brisk cold biting his cheeks, the walls of a mountain stretching upward to the clouds. The wind seems so loud against the silence of the ravine, wailing and moaning as it whips between the rocks. He’s lying in a bed of snow, and though he feels the chill, there’s a burning in his arm, spreading throughout the rest of him.

This feels familiar. He’s seen this all before.

With a blink of his eyes, the scene disappears, replaced by an empty apartment. He’s lying on the hard floor, with no blanket to keep him warm. The wind still echoes in his ears, and each time he blinks the scene switches back and forth, between what’s real and what’s only in the past.

Squeezing his eyes shut, the Soldier sits up, muscles stiff and aching from another poor night of sleep on another hard floor. When he opens them again, he’s in the apartment, the sound of traffic overpowering the whispered remnants of the wind.

He’s been having flashes like this since he made his escape. They come in his sleep, during the day, whenever his mind wanders a bit too far for a bit too long. His programming is slowly deteriorating, the memories coming back piece by piece. He’d be much happier about it if the different parts would come to him in some sort of _order_ , anything that could make sense. Instead it’s like reading a book out of order, or opening a puzzle and finding some – or in this case, most – of the pieces are missing.

The floor creaks beneath his feet as he stands up, rubbing the back of his neck with a yawn. His boots are set beneath the window, beside his dagger and a baseball cap. As he pushes the window open, the Soldier seats himself on the sill, pulling his boots on. Tucking the dagger – the only weapon that survived his dive into the Potomac – under his jacket, he sets the cap on his head, all of his movements sluggish from exhaustion.

It’s too damn early for this.

Slipping off of the sill, he closes the window again behind him, quickly and smoothly maneuvering down fire escape after fire escape to the street below. His feet strike the concrete and he stuffs his hands in the pockets of the jacket he’d lifted from a thrift shop on the first day of his freedom, taking off down the road.

Common sense tells him he should’ve skipped town the first chance he got. SHIELD may have fallen, HYDRA may be scattered, but that doesn’t mean there won’t be agents already out searching for him. The farther he gets from this damned city, the better off he’ll be. He knows this.

Yet he can’t help the feeling that he _has_ to stay, just a little while longer.

It had still been early in the morning when he dragged himself out of the quiet, little, empty apartment he’d claimed for the night – but the air was thickening as the day wore on, living up to the city’s reputation for intolerable humidity. By the time the Soldier had wandered his way into the busier parts of D.C., sweat was beginning to trickle down the back of his neck.

It’s too damn  _hot_ for this.

He’s seated on a park bench with the Washington Monument towering above him, drinking from a water bottle he swiped from a street vendor down the road, when he sees her – straight blonde hair, blue dress, dark sunglasses. There’s something familiar about her, although he can’t place it. She walks by him, taking confident strides, and as he watches her in curiosity, a sign behind her catches his eye.

“ _Captain America: The Exhibit_.”

In a single moment, he’s on his feet.

It’s almost too much of a coincidence to be _real_ – to think that something had been drawing him to the city, keeping him here when logically he should’ve left days ago, and now he’s found something that could help him remember, maybe give him the pieces he’s been missing all this time.

He wanders into the exhibit slowly, looking at everything, taking everything in, when he sees her again – the blonde. His curiosity gets the better of him – he can always come back and read what he missed, after all – and as she weaves through the crowd of people, he follows close behind, not letting her out of his sight.

She turns a corner, and he’s frozen in his spot, the image of himself staring back at him.

It’s as if she _led_ him here, exactly where he needed to be. Mesmerized, the Soldier steps closer, reading the words scrawled across the display, reading them again, and again, his features slowly shifting from surprise to confusion to pure _rage_ in a matter of seconds.

He’s going to kill them. He’s going to kill all of them for what they’ve done to him, what they’ve taken from him –

“It’s sort of sad, don’t you think?”

The blonde is standing next to him now. At some point she must’ve moved to stand beside him, without his noticing – he’s been too absorbed by the display before him to be aware of anything going on around him. Now it’s as if his eyes have been opened, his mind cleared of all distractions. He doesn’t look at her, only turns his head downward.

But she’s looking at him, sunglasses set low on the bridge of her nose so blue eyes can peek over them at him.

Her lips part, as if she means to speak again, but the Soldier interrupts her, voice flat and unimpressed.

“That’s a wig, isn’t it? You were a redhead last I saw you.”

He’s met with silence as she slowly turns her gaze away from him again, pushing the sunglasses back up the bridge of her nose to hide her eyes. He still doesn’t look at her, but he swears he can see the corner of her lip pulling upward in a little, half-amused smirk.

“So you remember me.”

“More like recognize,” the Soldier replies coldly. “You’ll have to remind me.”

She seems to deflate, but only barely. Her mask is too good – she isn’t letting him see anything she doesn’t want him to. He’d almost be impressed if he wasn’t already so annoyed. “Well… where’s the fun in that?”

Breathing in slowly, the Soldier looks down at his feet, hand tightening around the dagger in his pocket. This woman, whoever she is – she was working with SHIELD, from what he remembers. He can’t imagine that whatever’s left of the supposedly "good" side of the intelligence apparatus is particularly _fond_ of him.

There’s only one reason she could’ve sought him out.

“You picked a helluva place for an assassination.”

“What makes you think I’m here to kill you?” she asks, voice calm and smooth, as if she’d expected he might make that assumption.

“Why else would you be here?”

“Maybe I want to help you.”

A bitter laugh erupts from the Soldier, and he finally turns halfway to face her directly, not a hint of amusement crossing his cold features. “Why the hell would you want that?”

Pulling off her sunglasses, she turns to face him as well, steady blue eyes easily meeting his distrusting gaze. “Because you need it.”

“And I suppose you’re offering out of the goodness of your heart.”

“Is that so surprising?”

“Everything has a price.”

“Not this.” She takes half of a step towards him, craning her neck to look up at him. Try as he might, the Soldier can’t read her expression as anything other than completely, perfectly honest. “I’m offering you my help. Take it.”

The Soldier can feel his stone-like features slowly softening – but he looks away from her before she can catch a glance. He cannot afford to be weak, not for a single moment. While HYDRA may be scattered, they always manage to scramble together again, stronger than ever. They could have eyes and ears anywhere, even here.

Vulnerability will lead to failure. Failure is not an option.

“Only for a few days,” he relents, relaxing his grip on the knife in his pocket. “Until I can get out of the city. No more than that.”

“Agreed.”

“And it might help to know your name.”

The triumphant grin that sets her face alight is far too pleased for his comfort. She’s won, as much as it frustrates him, as much as he wishes he didn’t need her help – but he does need it. At the least, he needs it to help him get back on his feet once again.

“It’s Natasha.”

* * *

 

Outside of the Smithsonian, Natasha’s sleek black Corvette sits parked along the side of the road, catching the occasional glance from passerby.

“You couldn’t have picked a less conspicuous car?” the Soldier asks in a flat voice as she leads him towards it.

She responds with a short laugh. “It’s fast. It gets me places.” Stepping around to the driver’s side, she opens the door, sliding into the seat. “Hop in.”

Reluctantly, he settles into the passenger seat beside her. The door is barely closed before she pulls away, the car’s engine revving as it takes off down the road. Inside the museum, she’d explained that she has a safe house not too far away where she could take him. There, he can figure out what he wants to do.

He has no idea if he should trust her – after all, she could just be leading him right to the authorities for all he knows – but he doesn’t have much of a choice, it seems.

“So,” she says, and he turns his head to see her pulling the blonde wig off, red hair spilling over her shoulders in its place.

Whatever she says next is lost to him as his mind takes him elsewhere – a bridge, transformed into a warzone. Guns fire all around him, the streets below erupting into utter chaos, and the woman – she’s taunting him, dodging every bullet with a smirk at her lips. He knows that she’s leading him away from the fight, he knows that she’s trying to pull him into a trap, yet he’s drawn to her anyway.

Her red hair is all that can be seen of her as she weaves between cars, shouting at bystanders to get away before he can get to them.

They don’t have to worry – they aren’t his mission.

_She is._

He blinks and the scene is changed to the side of a cliff somewhere near Odessa. The sound of screeching tires is fresh in his ears, and he’s walking casually along the edge, seeking out a decent viewpoint as the car falls, crashing to the bottom with a sickening crunch. The cliff itself isn’t deep enough to assume that a fall like that would kill – and you can never be too careful.

Getting into position, the Soldier raises his weapon once again, watching, waiting. The redhead is the first to reappear, crawling out of the shattered windshield, blood trickling down the side of her face. Her hand has a tight grip on the engineer she’d smuggled out of Iran.

It’s really all too easy.

But she sees him, her head turning, eyes locking on him. There’s something like recognition crossing her features, which quickly turns to defiance as she moves to block his shot, standing over his target. It's as if she thinks that will _stop_ him. 

He pays her no mind as he pulls the trigger.

Another blink and the world falls to silence. He’s lying in bed, in an unfamiliar room, the sheets twisted around his limbs. Moonlight shines in through the window, broken into stripes by the blinds. A woman lies beside him, turned on her side and facing away, her red hair spilling out across the pillow.

A part of him wants to reach for her – but a voice snaps him out of the memory before he can. “Hey,” the voice says insistently, “ _Hey_. Are you listening to me?”

The Soldier blinks and he’s back in the car with Natasha. They’re no longer in the heart of the city, and apartment buildings pass them by in a blur. He can feel her eyes on him briefly before she has to return her gaze to the road. “Sorry.”

“Did you hear a word I just said?”

“Not really, no.”

He expects her to scoff at him, act as though he’s offended her – but he’s surprised by the genuine concern that crosses her features as she briefly looks his way again.

“Are you okay?”

Breathing in slowly, his eyes flick away from her, out the window, watching the buildings as they drive by.

That’s a stupid question.

“I’m fine.”

It’s hardly convincing to his own ears, and he wouldn’t be surprised if she argued – but she lets it go to his great relief, turning her attention once again back to the road. In the silence, his mind drifts back to the woman from the last memory, curled up so sweetly beside him. For a moment he has to wonder, glancing towards Natasha, eyes landing on her blazing red hair – but no, it couldn’t be.

It’s a coincidence.

Only a few more minutes pass before she pulls over, parking in front of a brick building. Children play outside on the small lawn, an elderly couple walk hand in hand down the road – it _seems_ like a perfectly normal neighborhood.

“You live here?” the Soldier asks as he opens the car door, stepping out onto the grass. It’s peaceful – not at all what he was expecting.

“Sometimes,” Natasha replies, moving around the car, passing him as she begins climbing the concrete steps to the door. Slowly, he follows, taking in his surroundings – the birds singing and flying between the little trees, the sunlight shining down on little flower pots set out on the neighbors’ windowsills. It’s all so calming, quiet, peaceful… maybe staying a few days won’t be so bad after all.

“Hey,” she says gently, and the Soldier realizes as he turns his head to look at her that he’d paused on the steps. She’s waiting patiently at the door, holding it open for him. “You coming?”

Giving a short nod, he climbs the rest of the steps, passing her to get inside. The place is small, a tiny living room off to the left and the kitchen to the right. Directly ahead is a narrow spiraling stairway that leads to the next level.

“The bathroom’s up there if you need it, through the bedroom,” comes Natasha’s voice from behind him as she closes the door. “And there are some leftovers in the fridge – or I can order something fresh, if you want.”

With a shrug, the Soldier steps to the left into the living room, stripping off his jacket and hat and carefully setting them atop an armchair. The room isn’t overly decorated – simple tan walls and carpeting, a plain brown couch and armchair in front of a television, a coffee table covered in files and newspapers, a lamp on one end table and a plant on the other. It’s quaint.

It’s… nice.

“Do you want to take a shower?” Natasha asks, stepping up beside him with her arms crossed. “I can order something for us to eat. It’ll be here by the time you get out.”

It takes him a moment to nod, turning back to the stairs silently. He’s already made it halfway up when she calls to him from below, “There are some towels in the closet in the hallway.”

Hot water pours over his skin, relaxing his taut muscles. It’s been so long since he had a warm shower – it feels like a luxury, now. The Soldier spends a good ten minutes simply letting the water run over his naked flesh, washing away the tension.

When he finally reemerges, clean and smelling faintly of her shampoo, a set of clothing had been placed on the bed for him. They don’t fit quite right, the sleeveless shirt a bit small and the sweatpants clinging to his hipbones, but they’re clean and comfortable enough, and the pockets are big enough to tuck his dagger into. As he returns to the lower level, the smell of cooked vegetables fills his nose, making his stomach growl hungrily.

“Hey,” Natasha greets him, seated with her legs folded on the couch and a container in her lap. At some point while he showered, she’d changed as well, switching the blue sundress she’d been wearing out for some sweats. “Feel any better?”

With a nod, he moves to join her on the couch, the soft carpet squishing between his bare toes. She hands him a second container full of food, smiling encouragingly at him. “I ordered Chinese.”

“Thank you.” His voice is soft, low, as if it’s difficult for him to say. Truthfully, it isn’t easy to believe that she’s doing all of this for him without the expectation of _something_ in return. Then again, he hasn’t known kindness in decades – he probably wouldn’t recognize it if he saw it.

Natasha only smiles in response, returning to her meal. Lifting the container close to his nose, the Soldier gives it a good sniff before he scoops a bit into his mouth – and then another, and another. It only occurs to him now that he’s eating how hungry he’s really been in all this time, and he gladly shovels it down, only vaguely aware that she’s watching him.

Within mere minutes his container is completely emptied, licked clean. He sets it down on the coffee table and leans back against the couch, sinking into the cushions comfortably – but he has to remind himself not to get too relaxed here. He can’t afford a slip, no matter how much he’d love to settle down for a little while. Pulling his dagger out of his pocket, he sets it in his lap, keeping a firm grip on the handle.

It’s only a precaution. He can’t take any risks.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Natasha tells him, voice soft beside him. “You’re safe here. You can trust me, really.”

He turns his head to look at her, but he can feel the memories rushing to him before he can stop them. As always, the barrier between reality and mere memory blurs. The living room falls away, replaced by something like an empty training area. Targets line the walls, and the Soldier stands facing one. In his hand is the same dagger, and he draws it back, throwing it with lethal precision. It lands directly in the center of the target, the blade burying itself deep within the red.

A movement behind him catches his attention. His back straightens and he doesn’t turn his head when he says in a flat voice, tongue twisting around the Russian language, “ _I know you’re there_.”

He’s met with silence as he steps towards the target, placing his hand firmly on the wall for leverage as he twists the dagger free.

“ _How do you do it_?”

Turning around again, the Soldier’s eyes meet Romanova’s. She’d moved to stand where he’d stood only a moment ago, looking determined and unafraid of him.

He thinks he should be angry – she should not be here. This is his private time to train, and she’ll have her opportunity to learn when he works with her again in the morning. Yet, the way she watches him intently, holds herself bravely despite what he could do to her, he can’t say no.

Stepping back across the room, he flips the dagger in his hand so that he holds it by the blade, pinching the flat side between his thumb and index finger to avoid cutting himself. The handle extended to her, Romanova takes it from him calmly, but he can see the eagerness glimmering in her eyes.

“ _Let me show you_.”

The last thing he remembers before the memory slips away from him is stepping up behind her, his hand reaching to cover hers, guide it back. His eyes close, and when he opens them again the living room has returned, Natasha watching him in concern, her hand resting over top of his.

His immediate reaction is to pull his hand away from her grasp, grip tightening around the handle of the dagger.

_I know you._

He knew there had to be a reason she concerned herself with him.

A flash of something like hurt crosses her features before the mask returns to hide it. Leaning back, Natasha calmly settles her hand back in her lap, brow furrowing in concern. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” he replies curtly, carefully searching her expression. She must remember – why else would she help him? That had to be the reason.

He’s honestly disappointed.

“I’ll just feel more comfortable with it on me.”

She purses her lips thoughtfully, glancing downwards at the dagger in his hands and then away again. “Okay,” she says in a soft voice, standing up and gathering the empty containers. “Just – be careful. I don’t want to have to clean any blood off of my couch.”

With that, she disappears into the kitchen.

Sleep calls to the Soldier like a long lost friend – the couch is so soft underneath him, and after so long of sleeping on hard floors or inside a freezer it’s almost like lying on a cloud in comparison. Slowly, his eyelids grow heavier, until he can’t fight it any longer. Curled on his side with his head positioned on the arm of the chair, he falls into a deep sleep, grip on the knife loosening as he drifts away.

For once, he doesn’t dream – or at least, he doesn’t _remember_ dreaming. Hours pass before he slips back into consciousness again, blinking as he begins to stir.

His eyes open, and he half expects to see the same, familiar scene he always sees in the moments before he wakes – the snow, the blood. Instead he’s lying in bed, in an unfamiliar room, the sheets twisted around his limbs. Moonlight shines in through the window, broken into distinct lines by the blinds. A woman lies beside him, facing away, her red hair spilling out across her pillow...

He recognizes this. It’s the same flash of a memory he’d seen before, after Natasha had taken off her wig.

The edges of his vison are blurred, but he can see her clearly. She’s curled on her side, bare back visible to him. The sheets are clutched in her hands, held up to cover her naked chest, and the Soldier can see her shoulders slowly shift with each soft, peaceful breath. Sleeping soundly beside him, it’s as if he poses no threat to her, as if this is no killer lying with her.

Somehow, it doesn’t feel like the other flashbacks. There’s no hostility here, no pain. It’s peaceful. Calming.

His metal arm is draped over her waist, and he inches himself closer to her, curling his body around hers, tangling their legs together. It’s hard to believe, given his record, that he could ever be so gentle.

“James?”

The voice is soft as a whisper, echoing in the back of his mind. Blinking, the scene changes back to the safe house, and he recognizes the voice as Natasha’s. She’s standing behind the counter in the kitchen, watching him with concern.

He blinks again, and his arms are around the woman once more, his nose burying itself in her red hair. It’s so peaceful, he doesn’t want to leave the memory – but Natasha calls to him again, insistent.

“James.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, the Soldier shifts, rolling onto his back before opening his eyes to the bright living room of the safe house, though his mind remains in the memory. He can still feel the warmth of her soft skin, the tickle of her hair on his cheeks. Turning his head, his eyes find Natasha across the room.

For a moment, as his gaze settles on sleek red locks falling over her shoulders, he has to wonder – but no, that’s foolish.

With a yawn, the Soldier sits up slowly, realizing in surprise that a knitted blanket had been spread on top of him at some point in the night – which might’ve been a pleasant surprise if he hadn’t also realized that the dagger was no longer clutched in his grasp. Panic sets in as he stares around him in search of it, kicking the blanket away to make sure it isn’t hidden.

“It fell out of your hand while you were sleeping,” Natasha tells him calmly from the kitchen, and his gaze returns to her. Pouring Cocoa Puffs into a bowl, she glances up to meet his eyes, holding the box up in offering. “I put it on the table for you. Want some?”

Turning his head, his eyes pick out the knife settled safely on the table, and he lets out a relieved sigh, relaxing again. “No, thank you.”

With a shrug, Natasha takes her bowl and navigates around the counter into the living room, seating herself on the couch beside him. She brushes her hair back over her shoulders to keep it from getting in her food, dressed in a gray tank top and light blue sweats, cuffed just beneath the knees.

“You were talking in your sleep last night, you know.”

Leaning back against the arm of the couch, the Soldier turns his eyes downward, finding a patch of the carpeting to stare at. “Was I?”

“It was mostly gibberish.”

“Mostly?”

“You were saying your name.” There’s a pause, and he looks back up at her, finding her staring at him curiously. “James Buchanan Barnes.”

“That why you called me James?”

“Should I call you something else?”

He doesn’t answer, silence falling between them as he returns his gaze to the carpet. He hasn’t had a name in decades – it feels strange to have one again.

Leaning a little closer to him, Natasha asks in a gentle voice, “Is it alright if I call you James?”

It _is_ his name, whether he’s used to it or not. At least “James” doesn’t make him cringe quite as much as “Bucky” does. Giving a curt nod, the Soldier replies, “I guess that’s fine. Better than nothing.”

A small smile teases at her lips, and she settles back again, scooping a spoonful of Cocoa Puffs into her mouth. “Alright, James. What’s your plan?”

Crossing his arms over his chest, he lets out a long breath before setting his gaze on her. “I’m gonna kill ‘em.”

Her hand freezes, spoon halfway to her mouth. “What?”

“All of ‘em, every last one. I want them dead.” His voice wavers with rage, and he sets his jaw firmly. He doesn’t _only_ want them dead, and he’s sure that she can tell. He wants to make them _suffer_ like he suffered. “They sure as hell deserve it.”

“You’re talking about HYDRA.”

“Damn right I am.”

Slowly, Natasha scoots to the edge of the couch and sets her bowl on the coffee table. Her fingers fold together in her lap, and when she speaks to him, every word is carefully chosen, gentle and calm. “Maybe you should think about this.”

He scoffs. “Believe me, I _have_ thought about it.”

“Maybe you should think about it a little more.”

“I want them dead, Natasha.”

“James.” She reaches for him, gently placing her hand on his knee. “I understand that you’re angry. You have every right to be.”

Snarling, the Soldier shoves her hand away, standing up and stepping across the room. He sets his hands on his hips, breathing in deeply through his nose, trying to calm himself down. She means well, and he knows that – but she doesn’t understand.

“James—”

“They’re evil, Natasha.”

“I know.”

“They deserve to die.”

“I know.”

Spinning around, he looks at her, distrusting. “Then why are you fighting me about this?”

Natasha slowly stands, stepping in front of him. Tilting her head back to meet his stare, she crosses her arms, clearly trying not to look threatening. “You’ve been through a lot, James,” she says, and he turns his eyes away from her, jaw set furiously. It doesn’t discourage her – her hand stretches forward, fingers gentle on his cheek, turning his gaze back around. “You need to take some time to recover.”

“What I need,” the Soldier replies coldly, catching her hand in his metal one and holding it away from him, “Is to stop the people who did this to me from doing this to anyone else.”

Freezing, Natasha stares up at him, beginning to realize that she won’t get through to him this way. Fingers curling, she tugs her hand out of his grip, pursing her lips. “That’s not why you want to do this.”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t pretend otherwise, James. This isn’t about heroism. This is about _revenge_.”

He can feel his face twitch. “Fine. So what if it is?”

“This isn’t how you want to start your life again.”

“You don’t know a _damn thing_ about me,” the Soldier growls, hands curling into fists at his sides. It takes everything he has not to leave now and never look back – he didn’t ask for her help, and if she’s only going to judge him, he doesn’t need to be here.

“I know enough.” Her expression is still calm, despite his hostility, and she gently covers his flesh hand with hers, never pulling her eyes away from his. “If you have to go after them, don’t let it be for revenge. They know things about you – they probably have information that could _help_ you with your recovery.”

Silence fills the space between them as he simply breathes, letting her hand carefully work his out of a fist.

“You want to get your memories back, don’t you?” Natasha continues, voice soft and soothing, “All of them? I’m willing to bet there's someone who knows how you can.”

Letting out a long, slow breath, the Soldier takes a small step back, pulling his hand away from hers. “And I suppose you’ll want to come with me.”

“You’re more likely to make it out of this alive if you have backup.” Crossing her arms again, a corner of her mouth twitches upward into a smirk. “And I’ve got nothing better to do.”

For a long moment, neither of them speaks. It’s reasonable, no matter how much the Soldier dislikes it. He can’t hope to do something like this by himself – an assault on an evil international organization? He would only end up dead, or worse: _caught_.

Not to mention she has connections that could prove useful to him, and safe houses positioned all over the globe. He’s better off working with her.

“Fine,” he finally relents, turning away from her and running a hand through his hair. “Whatever. Come along if that’s what you want.”

He isn’t looking at her, but he knows she’s smiling. He can feel it burning into the back of his neck, and he can sense the satisfaction radiating off of her. “I’m glad to see you’re finally thinking sensibly,” she says, amusement dripping off every word.

“You didn’t give me much of a choice.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her move back to the couch, taking the bowl of Cocoa Puffs back into her hands and settling down into her seat. “Now that that’s settled, I’ll ask again – what’s your plan? Where do we start?”

Turning, the Soldier purses his lips thoughtfully. There are a _number_ of places they could go – offices in D.C., within walking distance, have HYDRA connections. The goal isn’t just extermination anymore, however. They’re looking for his memories, and where better to start than the beginning?

His mind drifts to snow and blood and the bottom of a ravine before he snaps himself out of it with a shake of his head, looking back towards her.

“I think I’ve got an idea.”


	2. part ii

 

> _His fight and fury is fiery, oh but he loves like sleep to the freezing._
> 
> _Sweet and right and merciful, I'm all but washed in the tide of his breathing._

The next few days pass in a blur. Natasha makes arrangements for the two of them to get out of the country, creates false identification for them both, even pays for some new clothes for him – all of which the Soldier insists he will pay back.

In this life, he can’t afford to fall too far into debt, even if she insists that she won’t hold it against him and that she can wait for it to be repaid. He doesn’t want to owe anybody.

He especially doesn’t want to owe her any more than he already does.

They wake, they eat, they strategize, and they repeat. He’ll admit he enjoys having a steady place to stay for a few nights, and something comfortable to sleep on – but he doesn’t let himself get used to it. After all, they abandon the safe house less than a week after he gets there, and he doesn’t imagine he’ll be settling down anywhere else any time soon.

He can’t – not as long as HYDRA still stands, and not until he’s gotten all of his memories back. Not until he remembers who he is. 

Somehow Natasha manages to get them a private jet – through a friend, she insists, and as long as he doesn’t have to explain a weaponized metal arm to some nosy airport security guard he won’t argue.

They’ve barely touched ground in Zurich when they’re already on the road again with Natasha at the wheel, maneuvering them through mountains for hours. For the most part, she tries to keep a conversation going, but his mind is lost in other things.

An old-fashioned railroad travels a path not far from the road. It’s falling apart – he doubts it’s been used in years – and it hardly looks anything like how he remembers it, but he doesn’t think he could ever forget this place.

“Pull over.”

He can see Natasha turning an _“are you crazy?”_ glance towards him out of the corner of his eye – and to be fair, with the narrow roads and steep ravines, it’s probably the worst place to pull over – but she stops the car at the side of the road regardless.

Wasting no time, he steps out of the car and moves purposefully to the very edge, crouching down to get a good view of the ravine below. He knows exactly what he’s looking for – it won’t be easy to spot, but he _knows_ it’s there.

That’s one thing he could never forget.

“Okay,” Natasha says, walking up behind him. “I’m confused.”

He would've given her a response, but he’s too caught up in the memory – the wind whistling in his ears as the train speeds down the tracks, the terrifying creaking as the only thing holding him aboard breaks under his weight, Steve reaching for him. If only he could reach, just a little farther…

Shaking his head, his eyes continue to scan the ravine below.

Understanding seems to cross Natasha’s features as she follows his stare, crouching down beside him. “Is this where–?”

“There,” he interrupts abruptly, pointing below them into the ravine at a spot on the side of the mountain, a manmade crevice, hiding something between the rocks – and he knows exactly what. “That’s where we have to go.”

“Don’t suppose you have any ideas on how to get down?”

“I know one way not to,” he replies flatly, standing up again. “There’s gotta be a road or something.”

“I’m on it.” Looking over, he spies Natasha already tapping away at her phone. She smirks at him, clearly pleased with herself. “You’ve got to love GPS.”

“It comes in handy,” the Soldier replies, lips curling slightly upward in surprise and amusement.

“Got it,” she announces proudly, already making her way back to the car. “It might be a bit of a bumpy ride, though. You think there’s anyone still down there?”

“Shouldn’t be.” Moving back around the car, he slides into his seat, turning his head to look at her. “It was just a bunker they could use during the war – a good place to regroup. They would’ve abandoned it after the Nazis lost.”

The road turns off sharply, leading onto a new road that looks like it hasn’t been cared for in decades. The car bounces and hitches with every crack and pothole until finally a fence blocks off the rest of the way. A sign hangs on the locked gate, reading in bolded red letters “ ** _BETRETEN VERBOTEN_**.”

“‘ _Do not enter,_ ’” the Soldier reads aloud, unimpressed. “Well… rules were meant to be broken.”

Natasha stills next to him, hand hovering over the keys. Her head turns, and she looks at him with an odd mix of confusion and what looks like hope gleaming in her eyes. “Yes, they were,” she agrees after a long moment, pulling the keys out of the ignition. Stuffing them in her pocket, she reaches across him for the glove compartment, pulling out a pair of handguns.

“Just to be safe,” she tells him, setting one in his hand and stepping out of the car.

Stuffing it in the inside pocket of his jacket, he follows suit, closing the door and sizing up the fence in front of them. It looks _old_ – like it hasn’t been maintained since the day it was set up. He takes the rusted lock in his metal hand, rolling it around in the palm curiously, before he curls his fingers around the metal and pulls. It snaps open with a _crack_ , the gate swinging back.

“Wow. I’m a little disappointed by how easy that was.” Wiping the dirt off his hand, they move through the gate, making quick progress across the ravine.

With the snow having melted, it looks nothing like he remembers it – green grass, blue sky up above them, the summer heat to warm his skin… he remembers snow and cold and an unforgiving sky.

It’s amazing so much suffering could happen in such a peaceful place.

“Hey,” Natasha says softly, reaching to gently touch his elbow. This time, he doesn’t pull away. “You okay?”

That’s a stupid question.

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he keeps moving. They’re on a _mission_ , he reminds himself. They should get it done and get out of here.

As he’d suspected, behind the crevice he’d spotted from above is a huge metal door, rusting and weatherworn. No doorknob, no cracks – it’s seemingly just a random metal wall in the side of the mountain.

“It must slide open from the side,” he says after a moment, running his metal fingers over the rough surface. He feels around the edges, searching for something to latch onto. Finding a dip, he gives the door a tug and hears it beginning to budge with an awful creak. Rust and dirt sprays into the air as he forces it open enough for the two of them to slip inside into the dark.

From beside him, Natasha pulls out her cellphone again, turning on a flashlight for them to see as they walk. As he’d predicted, the bunker seems completely deserted. Thick layers of dust cover every surface, kicking up into clouds around their feet with each step.

He recognizes almost nothing of it – he’d been barely conscious when they dragged him here, and the place is nearly completely empty. Of course it’s reasonable that HYDRA would take all of their equipment when they abandoned the place, but that doesn’t make it any less _eerie_.

“Whatever you’re looking for here,” Natasha says in a wary, yet still steady, voice as she shines the light through a doorway, revealing another emptied room. A few rats race across the floor as the light hits them, squeaking as they scatter. “I’m not so sure you’re going to find it. Nothing’s been here for years.”

“I’ve got to look anyway,” the Soldier insists, refusing to give up so easily. He’s on a mission. He’s got something to find –

Her cellphone-turned-flashlight shines into a new room, and he freezes where he stands. This room, unlike all the others, hasn’t been thoroughly cleared. A metal cot sits in the center of the room, a cart beside it. Both are still covered in seventy years’ worth of dust, but he knows this room. He knows that cot.

The scene replays itself before his very eyes – the doctors examining him, murmuring in German to one another – “ _Are you sure this is the one he spoke of_?” “ _Certain. How else would he have survived the fall_?” – the unimaginable agony as they roughly set him down on the cot without a single thought towards his broken bones or partially severed arm. The lights seem so bright, the buzzing in his ears so loud he can barely hear the sound of the saw cutting into bone or his own gasps of pain.

“James,” he hears Natasha say from somewhere beyond the memory, and he squeezes his eyes shut. Everything hurts – every bone in his body aches with the memory of the fall, even the ghost of his missing left arm burns, and his head feels as if it might explode. Of all the memories he’s missing, this isn’t one he wants.

He doesn’t _want it_.

“James, snap out of it.”

His eyes open and the scene is different – but it’s not where he’s supposed to be, in the bunker, in the present. Instead he’s naked and shaking, sitting up in bed and breathing heavily as he tries to regain control.

“ _Soldier_ ,” murmurs a soft Russian voice from beside him, and his head whips around with a fearful gasp as he feels a hand gently settles on his shoulder.

It’s Natasha.

She looks nearly the same, and yet she looks so different. Her eyes that have always seemed so old and wise have lost their wisdom, replaced by youth. Red hair spills over her bare shoulders, the same red hair he’d seen spread across the pillows in his other memories.

_So it was you._

“ _Soldier_ ,” she murmurs again, lifting both hands to cup his cheeks. “ _You’re alright. It was only a dream_.”

“ _I don’t dream, Natalia_ ,” the Soldier replies fearfully, his voice slightly choked. “ _I don’t understand – it felt so real–_ ”

Hushing him, she pulls him down to lean his head against her chest. “ _I’ve got you. You’re safe now_.”

His arms wind around her naked waist, and he squeezes his eyes shut, breathing in deeply. One of her hands snakes into his hair, the other rubbing soothing circles over his back as she whispers sweet nothings into his ear and presses kisses to his temple.

“James.”

He clings to Natalia, _his_ Natalia – warm and comforting and safe – desperate to stay in her arms for just a little while longer.

“James, you have to snap out of it. James!”

A hand on his shoulder, shaking intently, finally forces him to open his eyes again. This time, he’s finally returned to the bunker with Natasha. Somehow he’d begun leaning against the wall, holding his pounding head in his hands, palms pressed against his temples.

“We need to go,” Natasha insists, ceasing her shaking when she realizes he’s no longer in a daze. “We aren’t the only ones here.”

“What?” the Soldier demands incredulously, looking up at her like she’s lost her mind. Yet in the few short moments of silence that pass between them, he can hear the echo of distant footsteps bouncing off the walls. “How could anyone else–?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Curling her fist into his shirt, she tugs him upward a bit, helping him stand straight before trying to urge him back out into the hall to make a quick getaway.

He tugs himself free from her grip, stepping backward into the room. “No—I can’t just give up. I’ve gotta keep looking.”

Natasha gapes at him, stepping after him as if to grab for him again. “For _what_? There's _nothing here_.”

“Just keep watch,” he insists, holding his hands up to keep her at bay. “Call for me if you need any help. I’ve just gotta keep looking.”

Though she doesn’t seem pleased, Natasha doesn’t chase after him as he spins around, ducking through a door in the corner of the room. Inside is total darkness, to the point where he can’t make out any sorts of shadows or shapes.

Reaching blindly to the side, his hand touches the wall, searching around for some sort of switch – and latching onto what feels like an old-fashioned light switch, definitely from the ‘40s. He almost smirks as he flips it and a set of lights flicker on, illuminating the room.

There’s a desk and a series of filing cabinets – but it all looks like it’s been raided. All that’s left on the desk is a few scattered fountain pens, and some of the drawers of the filing cabinets hang open, ignored files discarded all across the floor.

Mentally cursing the jackass who had to make things _difficult_ for him, the Soldier’s eyes scanned the files, looking for something of familiarity. Every paper is marked with a red stamp reading “FAILURE.” All that HYDRA left behind were those files they found useless – projects and missions that had failed, agents who had died dishonorably, some even _honorably_ , and the likes.

Realization sets in slowly, sending a cold chill down his spine. His file won’t be here.

_No, no, **fuck** , no_.

Desperate, the Soldier drops to his knees, pushing some files to the side to check those underneath and still finding nothing of any value. Getting back on his feet, he searches the cabinets, looking first in the drawer marked “B” and then the drawer marked “W.” When nothing of use appears there either, he tears all the drawers out of the cabinets in a final, futile attempt.

Nothing. It’s not here.

Outside, the sound of a man’s pained grunting causes him to turn his head. There’s nowhere else for him to look, yet he gives the entire room one last glance before he turns back around in defeat.

Natasha’s cellphone lies on the floor, light shining on nothing in particular and leaving the rest of the room in the dark, but he can hear the sounds of a struggle coming from somewhere inside the room. Near the doorway, he can see a mass shifting and writhing in the shadows. Moving to pick up the phone, he points the light there, lifting an eyebrow curiously. A man dressed in black gear lies on his stomach, arms held behind him by Natasha, who doesn’t even appear to have broken a sweat in capturing him. She looks up as he points the light at them, a tiny, satisfied smirk tugging at her lips – until she realize he’s otherwise empty-handed. “You didn’t find it.”

“No,” he replies, stepping around them to switch on the lights. “The place was a mess, but I couldn’t see my file in there.”

Natasha frowns at him, holding her captive's arms together behind his back with one hand while the other moves to hold his head down as he struggles in an attempt to break free. “Your file…?”

“Yes. This is where they took me when they found me, so they should’ve had some early files here. Basic stuff – the condition I was in when they found me, the procedures they put me through. Early observations. Whatever I had on me at the time.” He shakes his head in frustration. “Nothing. They must’ve moved it when they moved _me_.”

“Ah, shit,” Natasha’s captive growls, and she pushes his head down harder into the floor, working a pained grunt out of him. “You’re – agh – you’re the Winter Soldier, aren’t you?”

“Shut up,” she orders, twisting his wrists painfully. He lets out a strangled shriek of surprise and pain, but otherwise doesn’t dare speak again. “There was a file on you in Kiev, but it didn’t have any of that.”

“So you’ve gone searching for my files before then?” he demands in an accusatory tone, raising an eyebrow distrustfully. It makes sense - especially since they have a history together - that she would. That doesn't mean he has to _like_ it. 

For a moment, she can only stare in astonishment. “It was for a friend.”

“Whatever. It’s not what I’m looking for, anyway.” Turning his attention towards her prisoner, he crouches down to get a better look at him. “He’s definitely HYDRA – he _looks_ like a snake. Probably out on random patrol, right? Or did we set off some sort of alarm when we got here?”

Struggle as he might, the man can’t manage to look menacing as long as he’s pinned to the ground. “I won’t tell you anything.”

“We’ll see about that,” the Soldier says, voice becoming flat. He looks at Natasha, grabbing a fistful of the man’s hair and motioning for her to get off of him. Though she fixes him with a concerned stare, she relinquishes her grip on his arms, standing and stepping off to the side, and the Soldier responds by dragging him to his feet by his hair and throwing him carelessly back to the side.

Stumbling, the agent reaches for his weapon, tucked away in his belt, but by the time he’s gotten it out the Soldier has taken his handgun out of his inside pocket and aimed a bullet directly at the other’s hand. With a shriek of pain, he drops his gun to the floor, clutching his wounded hand in the other as blood begins to pour from the injury and drip down his arm.

The Soldier gives him no time to recover, advancing on him and grabbing him by the throat with his metal arm. The agent lets out a strangled shriek, tripping over his own feet as the Soldier walks him backward, slamming him up against the wall.

“Ow – the _fuck_ , man–?”

“Where’s my file?”

“How the fuck should I know?”

The Soldier pulls him away from the wall, promptly slamming him up against it once again, hearing a satisfying crack as his captive’s head collides with the wall. With a choked cry, the man lifts his hands to try and pry the Soldier’s off of him, with no success. “Where could it be? Where would a file on the Winter Soldier wind up?”

“I don’t know!”

Letting go of him, the Soldier raises his gun again, taking a step back and aiming it directly at the man’s right kneecap. “I’m not gonna ask again.”

“I told you, I don’t—”

The gun goes off, lodging a bullet in directly in the center of the agent’s knee. He collapses with a scream of agony, curling up on his side on the ground and cradling as much of his leg to his chest as he can. Out of the corner of his eye, the Soldier can see Natasha observing carefully, face blank and nonjudgmental.

That’s probably for the best.

“Answer my question or you lose the other knee.”

The agent glares up at him, eyes burning with pure loathing and torment. “Hail—”

Another shot fires, followed by the same agonized scream.

“Okay, okay!” the agent screams in defeat, squeezing his eyes shut to fight the anguish. “It’s – you went to Russia, right? You worked there? It’s probably there, wherever you were based. They would’ve moved your more updated files after but – whatever you started with should still be there. But that’s _all I know_ , I swear!”

“They could be in Moscow, James,” Natasha says, voice calming as ever. “He’s told you everything he knows. It’s time to end this.”

The agent looks horrified behind the hatred. “You’re gonna call for help, right? Or bring me to a hospital? You can’t just leave me here, I can’t walk!”

The Soldier takes a long look at the agent, glancing between him and Natasha, before finally raising his weapon one more time and shooting the agent between the eyes. He collapses in a heap, leaving blood stains down the wall behind him in his wake.

Turning, the Soldier tucks the handgun back in his inside pocket, already making his way back out, moving with a purpose. “Let’s go before any of his backup decides to pay a visit.”

Natasha hesitates only a moment, eyes locked on the dead HYDRA agent, before finally turning to follow him out.

* * *

 

Hours later they sit together in another of Natasha’s safe houses, somewhere just south of the German border. Having changed out of his bloodstained clothes, the Soldier sits on the far end of the couch, deliberately sitting as far from her as he can.

It's as if they're right back where they started. 

Slowly, Natasha sets down the half-full bowl of microwaved canned spaghetti to look at him seriously. “Something’s bothering you, James.”

The Soldier, clinging to his dagger in his lap, already having finished his meal and practically licked the bowl clean, doesn’t look at her. "It's not what you'd like it to be."

"Tell me anyway?"

“I don’t want to talk about it, Natasha.”

“James.”

Turning his head finally, he catches her watching him seriously, the utmost concern in her expression. With a sigh, he turns his gaze back down at his dagger, and then ahead of him, taking a deep breath. “I remember you.”

Her lips part, but she doesn’t seem surprised – more like she’d been expecting to hear the words but simultaneously was unprepared for them. “You do.”

“I remember we had an affair.”

“Why didn’t you just say something?”

“Why didn’t _you_?”

Again, her lips part, but she struggles to find the right words to say. “I… was afraid of what you’d think.”

The Soldier bites his lip, nodding – but he’s certainly not going to leave it at that. This has been eating away at him since the first flash of the redheaded woman lying in bed beside him – and to know that she’s remembered all this time, that she couldn’t just work up the guts to _tell him_ that they have a past…

He’s disappointed.

He thought she was _different_.

“So that’s why you’ve been helping me,” he says, voice as cold as it had been when they first spoke in the Smithsonian. “I understand now.”

Natasha looks completely taken aback. “What?”

“Because of our affair. That’s it, isn’t it?” He looks at her again, complete distrust twisting his features. It’s a shame really – he’d begun to trust her, to even sort of _like_ her, but of course she had to be like this. “You want him back, the man you were with.”

“No, that’s not at all—”

“Don’t fucking _lie_ to me.”

“Would you let me talk?” Natasha snaps, looking genuinely angry. He doesn’t think he’s seen her so outraged since he's known her. “That’s not why I’m helping you. I’m helping because I care; because I _want_ to help you.”

“Bullshit.”

“Have I done _anything_ to make you think otherwise?”

“ _You didn’t tell me_.” 

She looks exasperated. “I wanted you to remember you on your _own time_. It’s better to remember for yourself than only have the stories people told you.”

“And you were hoping I’d be like him all over again,” the Soldier says, and she scoffs at him, throwing up her hands in frustration. “I knew there had to be a reason. No one helps for nothing. Everyone wants _something_.”

“I never—”

“You realize that’s why I’ve been running from Rogers, right? Why I don’t want to face him? Because he wants me to be _his_ Bucky Barnes again and I _can’t_.” There’s a waver in his voice as he speaks, and despite his attempt to stay cool and unreadable it’s so obvious he feels incredibly betrayed, even hurt.

“No, that’s not—”

“I can’t be him, Natasha.”

“I _understand_ that. Listen to me. _Look at me_.” She scoots a little closer to him, reaching to gently hold his face in her hands, keeping their gazes locked. “I swear to you I don’t expect you to be him ever again. That’s not why I’m helping you. I’m helping you because you need it, because I care about you, and because I want to see you improve. I want to see you get better, James.”

He looks uncertain still, searching her expression for any sign of dishonesty. It doesn’t _look_ like she’s lying – but how should he know? He believed that there was nothing between them up until his memories proved otherwise. For all he knows, she’s become too good at her job. Maybe he just can’t tell her truths from her lies anymore.

“You should’ve told me.”

“I’m sorry,” she says softly, sincerely. “I’m going to make it up to you, okay?”

For a long moment, he only stares at her, distrusting. He doesn’t believe her – he believes she’s sorry, and that she’ll try to make it up to him. But he doesn’t believe that she doesn’t hope the man she had an affair with will come back to her.

“Okay.”

Her smile seems almost relieved, and the tension seems to drain out of her as she settles back into her own seat, letting go of him to return to her food.

He would love to believe her, he really would – but when she falls asleep, he gathers his things in silence, scrawling out a brief note to her and leaving it on the kitchen counter before he goes.

 

> _Natasha,_
> 
> _Sorry. I was hoping it wouldn’t have to go this way, but I can’t_  
>  _be around you as long as I haven’t gotten all of my memories_  
>  _back. It’s the same reason I can’t be around ~~Steve~~ Rogers. I’m_  
>  _sure you’ll understand._
> 
> _Thanks for everything._
> 
> _\- J_


	3. part iii

 

 

> _It's worth it. It's divine. I have this some of the time._
> 
> _The blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine._

Andrey Ivanov is a well-respected Russian businessman – still quite young and, according to some, rather handsome, apparently has a good sense of humor, extremely wealthy, and has a keen interest in the culture of his country. To be specific, his interests tend to lean towards the ballet. In fact, he plans to attend the production of _Romeo and Juliet_ at the Bolshoi this very evening. He even flew in all the way from Saint Petersburg.

Ivanov is also a top member of HYDRA’s Russian division.

With the number of HYDRA rats still involved in the Bolshoi, it’s hard to believe that seeing the ballet is his _only_ motivation for flying into Russia’s capital.

He’s staying at the Ararat Park Hyatt Hotel, conveniently located right next to the Bolshoi Theater, on the second floor. The Winter Soldier knows because he has done his research _extremely_ thoroughly. He knows that at approximately six a.m., Ivanov gets up and goes to the gym for a jog on the treadmill and to lift. He’ll be back in his room by 8 a.m. for a shower and a shave, after which he will spend the majority of his time until the performance this evening reading the _The Moscow Times_ with an occasional food break.

This only leaves a limited window of opportunity for the Soldier to sneak into his hotel room and wait.

He checks in early that morning under a false identity, dropping his bags on the bed and setting out his weapons all in a line. It’s not wise to use a gun here – it’ll be too easily heard by the other guests. Tucking his dagger in his belt, he stuffs the others back into the bag, dropping it on the floor near the door on his way out.

The maid, as he’d expected, had already begun to clean rooms down this hallway. As he walks by, he offers a pleasant “ _good morning_ ” and snatches the master room key right off of the cart while she isn't looking.

Six minutes before eight o’clock, the door swings open to an empty room. Ivanov steps inside, following his regular routine, humming some sort of symphony to himself as he moves into the bathroom.

The water runs for ten minutes, giving the Soldier plenty of time to sneak back inside while Ivanov can’t hear the door opening and take a seat in the armchair. He’d already taken one look around the room while the man had been out – and he’d already taken exactly what he wanted.

He can hear frustrated noises coming from the bathroom, twisting the Soldier’s lips in wry amusement. “ _Where is it, where is it_?” Ivanov mutters in Russian, loudly enough for him to understand clearly. The bathroom door opens, and Ivanov steps out in a white bathrobe, looking incredibly irritated.

His eyes fall over the Soldier and he freezes, gaze eventually focusing on the straight blade razor he’s fiddling with between his fingers.

“This is a really nice razor, you know that?” the Soldier says flatly, looking over the blade with an air of curiosity. “Looks real sharp, though. Wouldn’t wanna slip using this thing.”

“Who are you?” Ivanov demands with a thick Russian accent, eyes narrowing at him. “What do you want from me?”

“You really don’t know?” the Soldier asks, sounding a little disappointed, _offended_ even. Pulling his metal hand out of his pocket, he sets it on the arm of the chair, directly in the light, where Ivanov will be able to see it perfectly. The metal whirs and clicks, fingers tapping the chair lightly. “Does news really travel so slowly?”

Recognition crosses the other man’s features, and he begins to inch himself towards his bags where they sit on the floor by the bed. “Winter Soldier. I can honestly say I’m surprised.”

“Understandable. I mean, if I were as _unremarkable_ as you, I wouldn’t expect any visits from master assassins either.”

Ivanov snarls. “What brings you to me, then? I would’ve thought you’d be after your creators – not out on a random killing spree.”

“Well, seeing as all of the men who did this to me are already _dead_ , I needed to find another way to let out all this _pent up aggression_.” The Soldier stands, twirling the blade around his fingers masterfully.

“You will get caught.”

“You ever tried to catch a ghost?” He stops directly in front of Ivanov. “I hear it’s not as easy as you’d think.”

“And yet, you’ve come straight to me,” Ivanov says, and makes a dive for his bag. The Soldier doesn’t try to stop him, taking casual steps around to get behind him as he digs for his gun.

It won’t matter if he gets to it or not – the Soldier has already removed the ammunition from all of Ivanov's weapons.

Taking a fistful of Ivanov’s hair, he tosses him to the side, away from the bag and onto his knees. He tries to spin, to defend himself, but the Soldier’s too fast for him – his arm strikes downward, the blade catching Ivanov’s wrist and slicing it open. He lets out a yelp of pain, stunned long enough for a sharp kick from the Soldier’s boot to force him back around.

Stepping up behind him, the Soldier twists his fingers into Ivanov’s hair, settling the blade firmly against his throat. Any sudden movements – from either of them – will not have pleasant results for him.

From the way he freezes, it’s clear Ivanov has come to this conclusion as well.

“Now. You are going to tell me exactly what I want to know. Understand?”

“Yes,” Ivanov grunts, “I understand.”

“Excellent. I’m looking for a file – _my_ file. I’ve got reason to believe it’s here in Moscow. Ever heard of the Red Room, Ivanov?”  

“The Red Room?” Ivanov sounds incredulous. “It was disbanded years ago, when the KGB fell.”

“But the old headquarters have to still be around somewhere, right?”

“Sure, but it hasn’t been in use since the ‘90s—”

“Not what I asked,” the Soldier hisses, pressing the blade harder against his throat – not enough to kill, but enough to cut into the skin, a trickle of blood beginning to drip down his neck. “Where is it?”

“I don’t–” Ivanov gasps, the blade cutting further into his throat, forcing the Soldier to ease up a little to let him speak. “I don’t know. It was before I joined HYDRA – I don’t know where it would be, I swear!”

“Then who _would_ know?”

“The – the woman I’m meeting tonight – at the ballet. Valeriya Petrova. She used to be an agent of the Red Room. Worked on the Black Widow program, I think. She’s with the Bolshoi now – training the ballerinas.”

The name doesn’t sound familiar to him, but if she worked on the Black Widow program, he’ll know her when he sees her. “And she could tell me where to look for my file?” His grip in Ivanov’s hair tightens, tugging his head back to expose more of his throat. “You’d better not be lying to me.”

“She would know more than I do,” Ivanov replies in a tight voice, trying to avoid having his throat cut. “What does it matter if I’m lying? You’re going to kill me anyway.”

“Where are you meeting her?”

“Backstage – she sent me a pass to get back there without any trouble.”

“What are you meeting her for?”

Ivanov laughs then, a deep, dry chuckle. “Mainly? We were going to discuss what to do about _you_.”

The Soldier’s lip curls up in a disgusted snarl. “I’ve heard enough,” he growls, and slices the blade across the man’s throat. Bright red blood splatters across the carpet, and as he lets go of his victim and steps back, Ivanov scrambles in an attempt to stop the bleeding, making strangled, desperate sounds.

Stepping over Ivanov's writhing, dying body, he moves to the desk, spreading the papers apart to look them all over. The ticket to _Romeo and Juliet_ is there, as well as the backstage pass he’d spoken of. Pocketing them both, he turns again, catching a glimpse of something hanging in the closet.

He moves to the closet curiously, finding a black suit and tie and white collared shirt. Ivanov had probably planned to wear it to the ballet tonight.

“Nice suit.”

 _And_ it’s in his size.

How convenient.

* * *

 

The Bolshoi is packed with people by the time the Soldier gets there that evening, dressed up in the suit with his long, dark hair pulled back. He gets in easily, showing the ticket and holding the backstage pass tightly in his hand.

Police sirens wail, lights flashing as the authorities pull up in front of the hotel next door, followed closely by an ambulance. He’d called them from the hotel only moments before he stepped out the door. The commotion captures everyone’s attention, ensuring their focus be kept away from him.

No one pays any attention as the Soldier slips through the backstage door.

Dressing rooms marked with the names of dancers line the hallways, along with prop rooms, costume rooms, break rooms… he checks everywhere he can, but to no avail. With the pass in his hand, no one questions his presence – not outwardly, at least. He’d be _blind_ not to catch their stares as he stalks by, looming and undoubtedly unfamiliar, and of course he hears the giggles of the dancers as he passes them.

Yet everywhere he looks, Petrova’s nowhere to be found. Even as he scans the faces of passing ballerinas and crew, he can’t find recognition in anyone.

At the end of the hallway, dancers file out through a doorway into a dark space – behind the stage, he assumes. The sounds of the orchestra tuning themselves sift down the hall with the rumbling murmurs of the crowd and the whispers of the performers. The door begins to shut, a Russian voice shouting, “ _Pla_ _ces_!”

Before it can close all the way, the Soldier catches it, shuffling inside quickly and silently.

The lights lower, casting the area behind the stage in nearly perfect darkness. For a long moment, the Soldier simply has to stand there and wait while his eyes adjust, slowly beginning to make out shapes around him. Props and set pieces appear to be set out, ropes hang from above to control the curtains, and he can see the silhouettes of people moving about, simple shifting shadows, like phantoms in the darkness.

It’s unnerving – he’s always been the sort to slink back into the shadows, watch and wait from afar, but here _everywhere_ is shadow.

There is _nowhere_ to hide.

“ _Sir_.”

The word is whispered from behind him, and the Soldier spins around, eyes narrowing to make out the shape of a young woman.

“ _Sir_ ,” she repeats, voice flat and cold, like that of an automaton. “ _You cannot be back here. The ballet is about to begin_.”

“ _My apologies_ ,” the Soldier replies, taking a step back, away. Something is _off_ about her – he can sense it. “ _I’m afraid I took a wrong turn_.”

She only steps forward, not allowing him the space he desires. Everything about her sends him on edge – her very presence makes him uneasy, desperate to get away.

“ _You cannot be back here_ ,” she says again, her voice as automatic as before. “ _The ballet is starting._ ”

Once again, the Soldier steps back, metal arm whirring as his hands form fists at his sides. She stands between him and his way out – and despite what she says, he has a feeling she doesn’t intend to let him get by.

The lights rise onstage, the audience erupts into applause, and she steps toward him again, finally illuminated. She’s one of the ballerinas, her blonde hair tied back into a tight bun, purple dress hugging her thin torso and flowing gracefully down to her knees – yet her expression is hostile, threatening.

The orchestra begins to play, and before he can attempt to step around her, her fist flies up towards him.

Dropping the pass he'd been holding, he bends backward to dodge the blow, feeling her knuckles brush the tip of his nose lightly. There isn’t any time to make a counterattack, because the next moment her foot kicks upward, toes pointed like the dancer she pretends to be.

Lifting is arm to block her, the Soldier momentarily stills. For a moment there, he thought he saw – but no, that can’t be right – he thought her hair had become _red._

 _No_ , he thinks, panic beginning to settle in his stomach. _No, this can’t be happening. Not here, not **now.**_

But he looks back up at her, and she’s no longer the blonde Red Room agent – there’s a completely new woman in her place, red curls carefully pulled back, white skirts puffing up around her.

The Soldier didn’t know her then – but he knows her _now._ It’s Natasha, young and beautiful, graceful and precise. Stretching onto her tiptoes, she lifts her leg up –

– and in reality, the blonde ballerina’s foot catches the underside of his jaw, sending him staggering backward. For a moment, all he can see is stars, and his head feels as if it’s about to crack in half, and not _only_ because of the kick.

The music grows louder, and he looks up in time to duck away from another kick, the agent’s leg swinging over his head. The Soldier takes a step forward, launching his metal fist in her direction. It’s nowhere close to hitting her, but that was never his intention – she jumps backward to avoid what surely would’ve been a brutal blow, giving him enough time to slip his flesh hand into his pocket and pull out his dagger.

Out of the corner of his eye, the silhouettes of the performers on stage dance across the curtains, blocking some of the already limited light. He lifts the dagger, preparing to attack – now that she’s lost the element of surprise, he has the advantage, and he’s fairly confident that he’ll be able to win this fight.

Or, at least, he _should_ be able to win this fight. 

But his memories take over, sending him back in time to another ballet in this same theater – only he’s not backstage, but standing in one of the private boxes. He’s the bodyguard of the elderly man seated before him, here only to watch over him, ensure his safety, but whenever the redheaded dancer takes the stage, he cannot look away. The Soldier has never had any particular appreciation for the arts, and yet he is completely _mesmerized_ by her elegance.

He understands now – that he couldn’t look away because it was her. _Natalia._ Despite having no memory of her, she was still the only creature to turn his head, break his concentration, and make him seem nearly human.

The shattered pieces of his memories are beginning to fit together again, settling back into place. All at once, they flood his mind – not only memories of Natasha, but memories of it _all_ ; of the Red Room, of the Widow Program… It’s everything he’s been wanting since his escape from HYDRA, and it could not be coming at a worse time.

He feels the dagger being kicked from his hands, but he’s too caught up in the influx of returning memories to be aware of anything occurring in reality. It’s as if he’s watching every moment of his life as the Winter Soldier over again, seeing it all before his very eyes. He sees his own half-naked body strapped into a chair, hears his agonized screaming as electricity shoots through him, ripping his memories clear out of his mind. He sees every mission, from start to finish, every drop of blood he spilled, feels it on his hands. And Natasha –

The sudden wave of emotions is overwhelming, and while he can _feel_ the blonde Red Room agent land a hard punch on his cheek, he can’t bring himself to do anything about it other than stumble backward, completely overtaken by the memories.

He feels every touch, all in one moment – every time he knocked her down in training, every accidental brush of fingertips. He can feel her lips on his lips in their first – and _last_ – kiss, and every kiss in between. He can feel her hands on his skin and twisting in his hair, her fingernails biting into his flesh, her body rocking with his. He can see her face as it contorts in blissful agony; hear her soft, choked gasps of pleasure.

Worst of all, he can feel his heart overflowing with every moment he swears to the heavens that he, despite all odds, loves her. He can taste the words on his tongue as he whispers it to her in every language he ever learned to speak. He can hear her breathless laughter as she murmurs it back to him, completely, perfectly happy.

He can feel every ounce of happiness he never deserved but she gave him anyway – and every moment of pure anguish once they were torn apart. He loved her.

He thinks he still does.

But this is not the time – as quickly as the memories rushed their way into his mind, he’s forced back into reality as a rope is pulled tight around his neck.

Letting out a choked gasp, the Soldier’s eyes snap wide open, hands flying up to claw at the makeshift noose. The blonde agent at some point managed to get behind him, leap onto a set piece and wrap one of the ropes for the stage curtains tight around his throat, successfully blocking off his airway. Reaching blindingly, his hand grasps the back of her head and he heaves, throwing her roughly over his shoulder. The rope is released, and he sucks in a deep breath, throat and lungs burning.

Her landing is anything but gentle, crashing into a pile of wooden crates with enough of a bang that the audience _must’ve_ heard it over the soft lull of the orchestra. She scrambles to her feet, but the Soldier has already spotted his discarded dagger and retrieved it, turning back, preparing to deliver a final blow.

“ _Sputnik_.”

His body crumples in on itself, the dagger slipping out of his hands once again. It’s as if he completely shuts down – and he can’t do a thing about it. Collapsing to his knees, he falls flat on his face, vision quickly fading.

 _I’ve made a terrible mistake_.

The blonde agent turns him over, and standing over her he can see her – the woman he’d come here for. Petrova. He'd been right in assuming he'd recognize her the moment he laid his eyes on her, but of course it's too late _now._  

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck_.

“ _Hello, dear Soldier_ ,” she greets in a voice that’s silky smooth. Her lips curl into a wicked grin, baring her teeth. “ _Oh, how we’ve missed you_.”

The last thing he sees before his world falls to black is that sickening grin as the audience bursts into thunderous applause.

* * *

 

It _feels_ like a memory.

The room is familiar – as is the chair he’s strapped into. His shirt has been stripped off, and it feels like he’s been drugged. His vision keeps coming in and out of focus, and he can’t feel his arms or legs. He’s barely even able to turn his head to look at the doctors reading his vitals and taking notes eagerly.

It has to be a memory. It _has_ to be.

He closes his eyes and opens them again. The scene stays the same.

He tries again. There’s no difference.

It has to be a memory – but it’s _not._

“ _He’s waking up_ ,” one of the doctors notes, “ _We’ll have to begin the procedure soon_.”

“Where am I?” he asks, first in English, and then again in Russian. “ _Where am I_?”

“ _You’re at the Red Room_ ,” a feminine voice replies, and he turns his head sluggishly to see Petrova standing there with a sickeningly sweet smile. “ _We’re pleased to have you back, Winter Soldier_.”

Two things cross his mind. The first – that damned Ivanov lied to him. Clearly, the Red Room is still in operation.

It was a _setup._

The second – there’s no way for him to get out of this.

His arms and legs are strapped into the chair, and whatever sedative they gave him is still in effect. If he was at full strength, he could easily tear through the straps, and even though he’s beginning to feel the life coming back to his fingertips, it won’t come fast enough for him to escape.

The machines haven’t even started and he can already hear the buzz of electricity. It makes his shoulders hunch, sends shivers down his spine, sets the hair on the back of his neck standing up.

They are going to brainwash him. They are going to reset his mental programming. They are going to make him forget _everything_ – again.

Everything he’s done – every attempt he’s made to get his memories back – it’s all been for nothing.

He isn’t going to make it out of this.

“ _Beginning procedure_ ,” the other of the two doctors announces, and the chair begins to bend backward, bringing him into position. He reacts so immediately – his body _knows_ it’s coming before the machine ever touches him. His breathing becomes quick and ragged, his pulse shoots up, and his entire body begins to shake with pure fear.

He hears a grunt, and the machine stops short. The sound of fighting is barely audible over the buzzing of the electricity, and he can’t sit up to see what it is, but he turns his head upward as far as he can, features twisted in fear and confusion.

The two doctors are lying on the floor, completely knocked out, and Petrova is soon to follow suit, dropping to the ground in a heap after a hard hit from –

_Natasha._

He doesn’t think he’s ever been so completely, honestly relieved in his life. “Nat.”

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” she tells him. Her expression is a mixture of fury and concern. Hurrying to the chair, she unstraps his legs from the chair first, and then moves to free his arms, carefully helping him sit up. “Can you move?”

“I’m getting there,” James says, flexing his fingers and rolling his shoulders. It’s taking more effort than it should, but he can feel the effects of the drugs wearing off. He turns his head to look at her in wonder. “How did you find me?”

“I made a wild guess,” she replies flatly, offering a little smirk. “Come on – they’ll be sending backup. We’ve gotta get out of here, fast.”

Looking around, the place is quickly beginning to feel familiar. The sudden rush of memories at the Bolshoi must’ve also brought back his knowledge of the grounds – and he knows _exactly_ where they keep their files. Swinging his legs around the side of the chair, he carefully steps down, legs wobbling slightly. “No. I’ve gotta get something first.”

“Are you _out of your mind_?” Natasha snaps, holding out a hand to keep him steady. “James, _listen to me_. You are in no condition to–”

“Nat, I came this far. I’m here.” Turning his head, he fixes her in a serious gaze. “I’ve got to finish what I started.”

She looks like she could shout a thousand arguments back at him – but she doesn’t. Slowly, she lets go of his arm, watching him with concern. “I’m coming with you.”

“I expected no less.” Offering an amused smirk, he turns on his heel, at first limping but quickly regaining his strength with every step.

Natasha follows closely behind him, keeping a watchful eye over him and looking out for danger. “You know where you’re going?”

“Yup.” Turning a corner, he nearly runs directly into two agents. Without wasting a moment, a metal fist hits the first hard across the jaw, knocking him into the other with enough force to send them both staggering to the side, where Natasha delivers a final blow, forcing them both to the ground at her feet.

His pace quickens, eyes darting around, searching the labels on the doors. At the end of the hall he finds it – the offices – just as another group of agents appears.

“I’ve got this,” Natasha tells him, pulling a pair of electric disks out of her belt. He recognizes them as the same sort she’d used against him in D.C., the one that made his arm malfunction. “You go.”

Giving a brief nod, he rushes inside, hearing the sounds of fighting filling the corridor behind him.

The cabinets are all lined in rows, arranged alphabetically. He hurries between them, looking for the correct one. The moment he gets there, he pulls it open, fingers flipping through the folders until at last he sees it – _“The Winter Soldier Project”_ – and his heart nearly stops.

Inside are notes, some in Russian and some in German, observations of him after he was found at the bottom of the ravine, letters detailing his progress and development. He cares for none of this – he’s only looking for one thing.

It's not just a matter of memories anymore - it's _him._ It's _himself_ he's lost. 

_Where is it, where is it?_

A set of numbers are written at the top of the file, and he narrows his eyes, looking up and around him. There’s another door at the far corner of the room – and he rushes over, looking inside to find a series of small vaults.

It’s a vault number – and the combination.

Moving quickly up and down the aisles, he finds the matching vault number at the end of one of the center aisles and enters the combination carefully, holding his breath as it pops open. Inside is a small, black box.

Taking it into his hands, James lifts the lid, looking inside, and lets out a relieved sigh. Closing it again, he doesn’t bother to shut the vault door and hurries back out into the office, and then into the hall. The scattering of unconscious agents indicates that Natasha had _no_ trouble apprehending the threats, and he grins at her – actually _grins_ at her – as she walks towards him again.

She looks surprised. “You found what you were looking for.”

With a sharp nod, he glances down the hall. Footsteps can be heard, growing louder as more agents get closer. “So, how about we get out of here, then?”

“I _couldn’t_ agree more.” Grabbing his elbow, she pulls him in the opposite direction. They make a break for it, racing past hallways _full_ of agents for the first exit they can find, Natasha shooting her widow bites back towards anyone who dares to follow them.

The sky is dark outside, offering the perfect cover as they dart across the grounds. “I’ve got a car on the street,” Natasha tells him as they hide behind a corner of the building, “And a friend at the wheel. Run straight for it no matter what. Got it?”

“Got it,” James agrees with a nod, peeking around the corner. “We’re clear. Let’s go!”

They run as fast as they can, only hearing the shouts of the Red Room agents behind them once they’re too far to be stopped. The car is mere steps away – the moment he reaches it, he opens the door, allowing Natasha to dive into the back first, following closely behind her. From the grounds, the agents have pulled out their weapons, sending bullets at the car in a vain attempt to stop it from getting away. The door isn’t even all the way shut before the car takes off, tires screeching as it tears down the road and away from the wretched place.

“You alright, Tasha?” the driver asks, and the Soldier sits up, breathing hard and staring at him. A blond man he doesn’t recognize is at the wheel, glancing at the two of them over his shoulder.

Natasha sits up as well, steadying herself with a hand against the driver’s seat. “’M fine. Clint – this is James. James, Clint Barton.”

The driver offers a stiff nod, turning his attention back to the road.

Relaxing into the seat, James lets out a deep sigh, holding the file and the little black box firmly in his lap. It's such a relief to have them in the safety of his hands after the troubles he and Natasha had gone through for them. For the first time in years, he truly feels like he can relax and breathe for a little while. 

Catching her breath, Natasha glances down at the items, and then back up at him. “You ever gonna tell me what all the fuss was about?”

Wordlessly, James hands her the box. She takes it carefully, watching him with cautious eyes, before opening it and scanning inside. “What _is_ all this stuff?”

“Everything I had on me when they found me,” he replies, sounding completely and utterly exhausted – but not at all unhappy.

Inside the box are a few old, faded photographs, letters from his family, other little trinkets – and his dog tags from the war.

“I don’t understand,” Natasha murmurs, shaking her head as she takes the tags by the chain, reading them over. “You nearly lost your mind – you got yourself _captured_ – for these?”

His head turns, and he looks at her with complete honesty, holding his hand out for the tags. She carefully sets them in his palm, and he curls his fingers around them. “They’re _him,_ Natasha. They’re all that’s left of him.”

“He’s _you_ , James.”

Staring down at the tags, he shakes his head. “No I'm not. Not anymore – but he’s a part of me that I can’t… I can’t just forget.”

“You _really_ needed this that badly?”

Nodding, there’s a long silence, and his voice is soft when he finally speaks again.

“I couldn’t just leave him at the bottom of a ravine.”

She doesn’t question it anymore.


	4. epilogue

**_Epilogue_ **

It’s been a long day.

Working with the Avengers isn’t easy – they haven’t all begun to trust him yet, which he understands. It doesn’t make it any easier, but he _understands_.

In his exhaustion, he doesn’t even greet Natasha as he enters the apartment they share, moving instead into the bedroom to change out of his gear and into more comfortable clothing. Maybe if he takes some time to relax, today won’t be as awful as it seems.

The lights are turned down low in the living room when James enters again. The television is set to a crackling fire burning strong in a virtual fireplace, casting an orange glow across room – and Natasha is lying on the couch, and patchwork quilt draped over her shoulders.

She smiles when she sees him, opening her arms. He doesn’t even hesitate – though it may not have seemed like it when he first arrived home, he’s wanted nothing more than to be with her all day. Walking quickly across the room, he climbs onto the couch, settling down in her arms with his head resting on her chest.

Natasha’s hands snake around him, folding the quilt over him as well, and he can feel her press a little kiss into his hair. It’s so easy to relax in her embrace with the sound of her beating heart as his lullaby.

“I love you,” he tells her in a sigh, closing his eyes and nestling against her. Something cold and metal grazes his cheek, and he peeks an eye open, lifting his hand to catch at the chain around her neck.

At the end of the chain hangs a set of tags reading “BARNES, JAMES B.” His dog tags, from the war. He'd given them to her one night, insisting that she keep them. They're better off in her care - after all, he's always been able to trust her to take care of him.

Since then, he’s never seen her without them.

“I love you, too,” she murmurs warmly, fingers gently stroking through his hair.

Letting his eyes shut once more, he smiles too.

Okay. Today isn't so awful after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd just like to take a moment to thank everyone who made Buckynat Week 2k15 happen. While I've written fics before, I've never written a Buckynat fic, which made me a little nervous about participating, but this has all been such a wonderful experience. Thank you to my wonderful artist for adding color and beauty to my work! 
> 
> I've had a great time celebrating the love of our two favorite Soviet assassins. Thanks for reading! 
> 
> -M


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